


Chasing Shadows - Tales of Artera

by Annjo_Wolfe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adventure, Coming of Age, Fantasy, High Fantasy, Kidnapping, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25645546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annjo_Wolfe/pseuds/Annjo_Wolfe
Summary: Evangeline has protected Lona ever since their parents passed away. But when a shadow steals Lona away in the dead of night, Evangeline must go beyond the protective Border, shielding humans from the terrors of magic and the creatures that use them.Meeting companions on the way as they search for Lona and their own place in the world.(One of my first books so if there's anything wrong with it, I am completely open for criticism. This is also a first draft, so I will go back and edit).
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

The strike of the hammer on hot metal rang through the forge, each sending sparks shooting through the air, their light dwarfed by the sweltering glow of the furnace. Evangeline felt the ache of her muscles, the steady thrum of each strike as from the hammer up her arm. Specks of dust caught the sunlight as they filtered through open windows. Various tools hung from hooks on the walls; tongs, pliers, chisels, hammers of many shapes and sizes, gleaming in the light. Under them heavy wood tables hunched against the stone wall, littered with shears, axe and shovel heads, work she would have to get done within the next few days. Far Horn was a prosperous farming and logging town, providing resources for other towns and cities in Artera. Being the town’s only blacksmith, Evangeline was often swamped, making, and repairing tools for the town. She sighed as she finished shaping the pitchfork head, laying it and her hammer wearily on her anvil. _Tomorrow it would need a handle_ , she thought as she moved onto the unfinished knife that lay on her worktables.

Evangeline had just finished shaping it yesterday and decided upon a brass guard and pommel with an oak grip, treating the wood leaving it to rest overnight. Picking up the blade she felt a swell of pride at the rich look of the wood when paired with the brass. Removing her leather gloves, she slouched over her grindstone expertly sharpening it, until she was satisfied, testing the blade on a strip of leather before finally deciding her work was done. She had a sheath in mind that would work for this knife, left over from another project when the client said they would have a leatherworker create one instead. Evangeline hadn’t been offended as had commissioned it as a gift for her son and wanted the sheath to have intricate designs, which Evangeline didn’t specialise in. Checking to see if the knife fit, she was glad to find it did. The knife was complete.

Evangeline saw through the window that it was mid-afternoon. _Lona will be leaving school soon, maybe I can surprise her by picking her up today_ , she thought. Feeling she’d done enough work for the day she grabbed a cloth to wipe the sweat from her arms and brow and attempted to tidy her forge, to some avail. Pocketing the knife, she removed her blacksmithing apron and hung it on a hook on her way out of the forge door. _I can deliver the knife to Byron on the way back_.

The forge was a small stone and wood house sitting a short distance away from her family home, both of which were nestled on the northern outskirts of Far Horn, a time away from the bustling centre. Usually blacksmiths would have their homes close to the centre of a city or town but her father valued privacy and open space when he and her mother first built their house, deciding that he’d rent a stall to sell his wares. He was very odd like that. When he grew some renown, he was able to have orders sent to him through a messenger if people didn’t come to him personally. Evangeline found that method convenient and used it to this day.

Evangeline strolled down the path towards the other side of town, as more houses came into view. She saw people working the field standing up and waving as she walked by and saw far off, a copse of trees being cleared by loggers, either for resources or for more space to grow crops she could only guess. A picturesque schoolhouse came into view as she walked around e bend. It was homely, clean, and large enough to hold over a hundred children at any given point, sitting next to a small meadowed hill that served as the children’s playground between classes. It wasn’t long ‘till classes ended so Evangeline opted to look for Lona. Her eight-year-old sister would be easy to spot among the other children, having long thick braids of mouse brown hair that stood out against her small frame.

After five minutes of peering into the large classroom windows, she found Lona sitting in Ms. Carlyle’s class, her braids bobbing up and down as she hurriedly switched between staring at the board and her notebook. Ms. Carlyle herself was a plump woman with lovely black hair and kind eyes. Evangeline remembered being in her class when she was around Lona’s age. Evangeline always felt saddened that she had to move schools.

Leaning against the shaded wall of the schoolhouse, Evangeline decided to listen in on Ms. Carlyle’s lessons, noting her avidly recounting Arteran history with wide and exaggerated hand movements.

“-three races of people, the Puiden, a short race of people living in the trees, the Gaoithe, humanoid people with equine bodies from the waist down and the Éan, bird-like people. Each race was able to use powerful magic but kept it from the humans that lived alongside them, despite humans themselves being able to use magic. Humans, then ruled by a monarchy, fell victim to an unfair negotiation with the race’s, trading away valuable resources and even a young girl, though the historical truth of that is still debated. It is said that the races grew greedy and sought our lands and knowledge, sending a Great Fire to ravage the land-”

Evangeline frowned… The Great Fire. A cataclysmic event that reduced the humans to ruin, burning unending for weeks upon weeks, destroying homes, lives, families. For what? Vengeance? Greed? The Great Fire caused nothing but terror for their people. _They set a fire to innocent people using their vile magic_ , Evangeline sneered at the word. By some cosmic irony, their magic turned on them, ravaging their lands in turn. _You reap what you sow_ , Evangeline thought with grim satisfaction. She paused though, her heart constricted painfully in her chest, her face squinted in response. _Fire_ , she thought, _why is it always fire?_

“-furious at the foolishness of their rulers, the humans revolted, with the monarch’s own general leading the charge. They were victorious and established a military government, the Council of Generals led by the High General,” Ms. Carlyle finished, stopping to gaze serenely at her students just as the bell of the school tower rang. The voices of the students grew as she yelled over them, “class dismissed everyone, hope you have a nice day. And if you have any questions-”

Evangeline heard no more as she walked around to the school’s entrance. Milling out of the large cared doorway are children ages five to ten. Her mouth dropped into a frown, brows creasing, as she scanned the crowd. She walked up to the entrance when she felt someone barrel into her.

“Eva!”

Recovering from her stumble, Evangeline looked down to find a little round face peaking up from her chest. Evangeline’s eyes glowed with fondness as she grinned. “Lona,” she greeted, “How was your day?”

“It was great! And look,” Lona said releasing her sister, holding up a big grey book to proudly show, “I got a book from the library.”

Evangeline read the cover, _The Great Book of Magical Occurrences_. She frowned worriedly. “That’s very nice Lona,” she offered. Lona beamed, falling into step beside her as they walked towards the town centre. Lona gave her a questioning glance which appeared almost mouse-like and so ridiculously cute with her bouncing braids under her simple red-laced fanchon bonnet.

“I have to deliver to the Hamadi’s before we go home, it’ll only take a few minutes,” Evangeline supplied, smiling secretly.

Arriving at a simple cottage in the middle of town, Evangeline knocked on the door. A stocky man with a heavy beard answered the door.

“Evangeline, it’s nice to see you today,” he greeted, opening the door invitingly. “Is the knife done already?”

“Hello Byron. Yes, it’s done,” she returned, taking out the knife from her pocket, and unsheathing it so show him as she and Lona walked into a quaint living room.

“Byron. Is that Evangeline?” A voice called from behind him. A heavily pregnant woman came entered from the kitchen, slowly hobbling her way to them, feeling at her blue headscarf and pins to check.

“Yes, Kahlila, it is. Lona’s here too,” Byron replied, placing his hand on his wife’s back and staring worriedly at her. She gave him an exasperated huff and brushed his hand off before grabbing Evangeline’s hand and pulling her forward excitedly. Evangeline stumbled, forcing an awkward smile towards the woman.

“How have you been dear? Is everything alright? Have you and Lona been eating enough?” Kahlila fired at Evangeline, smiling. Evangeline huffed inwardly. The couple were her best clients, commissioning her skills since she moved back to Far Horn three years prior. They were personable, perhaps to an extreme, and odd. Not many couples choose to take the wife’s family name in Far Horn, though she’d heard it was more common in the cities.

“Slow down, slow down! Don’t badger her Kahlila,” Byron said humorously.

Kahlila huffed again, then turned to Lona, smiling, “The boys are out in the garden. You can join them if you want.”

Lona smiled awkwardly in response, but Evangeline saw a flash of fear in her eyes. Taking an audible gulp, Lona walked out of the other door to the garden. Eying Lona worriedly, Evangeline turned to Byron to discuss payment and any other work he may have for her. _I’ll have to talk to Lona later_.

It was sunset when Evangeline walked out of the quant cottage saying goodbyes over her shoulder. Walking to the garden-side, she found Lona and Byron’s two sons, Emin and Ghani standing by a bush.

“ _Witch!_ ” Evangeline froze at the pure spite in Ghani’s tone. She hadn’t been noticed yet and crouched out of site to see where this conversation was going.

“I’m not a witch,” she heard Lona faintly mutter, the boys repeated her answer mockingly, jeering at her. Evangeline’s fists clenched angrily. _What a vile word! Don’t those boys know the seriousness of such an accusation?_

“You can do _magic_ ,” Ghani spat, “lighting candles when you think no one’s watching. How stupid can you be!”

Evangeline was disgusted at him, _picking on a child 4 years younger, what hope did Lona have of defending herself?_

“The army will know soon. They’ll take you away and you’ll never be seen _again_ ,” Emin, the younger of the two said cruelly.

Small sobs came from the tree, “No.”

 _That’s it_. Evangeline emerged from behind the bush, coming around to find all three children staring at her in fright. She glared daggers at the boys, daring them to say another word, their sweat teaming down their skin, the same chocolate of their mother’s. Kalila’s voice called from inside the house and the boys scurried off

Following them carefully, Evangeline was silent for a time, “Lona. Home, now.”

They turned to walk home.

The sun had set when they got home, the half-moon washing the night in a white glow. Evangeline swung open the door to their home, stepping in and holding it for Lona to scamper through. Removing her boots and abandoning them at the door, walking to the dining table for the fire striker, left there the previous night. Slouching by the fireplace she tried to coax a flame to life. Click. Click. Click, click. Again, and again Evangeline tried and failed as her frustration grew.

After a few minutes Lona appeared next to her, extending her arm towards to fireplace. “Here let me-”

“ _No Lona_!” Evangeline yelled. Lona drew back as if struck, her eyes shining with unshed tears, her lips wobbling. Evangeline stared at the fireplace, loose hair covered her eyes, her breathing heavy trying to control her temper.

Sitting there in the dark, Evangeline rubbed her face, frustrated. “They know Lona. _They know_. What am I supposed to do? You were supposed to keep it _hidden_.”

“I know, Eva. I’m sorry, I can’t help-”

“Can’t help what? Your _magic_? Because it seems to me you can,” Evangeline bit back. “ _People know_. If the army find out, they’ll take you away like they have others and there’s nothing I will be able to do Lona!”

Evangeline’s head fell into her hands as she whispered desperately, “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Lona looked down, beginning to sob. She then released an anguished cry and hunched over as if in pain. “I don’t want to be taken away. I don’t want to the army to take me away,” Lona said, panicked. She then looked up at her sister, snot and tear covering her face. “It’s all my fault. It’s my fault and I’m _sorry_.”

Lona’s apologies garbled into tears and the sight of her made Evangeline ache. She stared guiltily at her sister, her _eight-year-old_ sister. Someone so young shouldn’t have to fear being taken away… or worse. Lona shouldn’t have to bear such a grave secret nor be treated like a monster.

Evangeline shuffled next to Lona, cooping her onto her lap and hugging her tightly. “It’s okay Lona, no one is going to take you away. I promise I’ll always protect you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry," she shushed Lona calmly.

Kissing her gently on the head, Evangeline gently rocked Lona back and forth, trying to collect whatever calm she could to sooth Lona. After a time, Evangeline glanced on the floor where Lona stood earlier to see she had brought some bread and salted meat on plates and an iron teapot with water. Lona must have gone to the kitchen while she was struggling with the fireplace. She peered inside the teapot, seeing blue leaves floating lazily in the water.

“It’s borage,” Lona answered. Startled, Evangeline peer down at Lona, seeing her peeking up from her chest. “Kohl used to drink it for stress when he got grumpy or couldn’t sleep.”

This got a chuckle from Evangeline, who remembered waking up every morning to see the old man’s grumpy face telling her she slept in. She never did, but then Evangeline couldn’t argue with him when he generously agreed to take in a howling two-year-old and ill-mannered 13-year-old, whom he had no relation to. Even more surprising was his agreement to take on Evangeline as an apprentice blacksmith, though that was probably due to her own stubborn insolence. Still, despite his prickly nature, he was kind and patient, raising as his own two daughters and for that Evangeline would always be grateful.

Smiling, Evangeline picked up the teapot and placed it on the hook over the fireplace. She turned to Lona who looked at the fireplace before up at her in silent question. Evangeline nodded and then watched patiently as Lona stretched a hand to the fireplace. A small flame rose to life above her palm and she held it gently over the logs in the fireplace. Bringing up two chairs, cups, and the Lona’s library book from where she left it at the dining table, Evangeline watched as Lona tore into the bread and meat, before joining her. After they ate, Evangeline filled the two cups with hot tea while Lona read aloud from her book, stumbling over new words as she did. The stories weren’t to Evangeline’s taste and she wished they weren’t to Lona’s either, but nonetheless she listened intently and never missed a word.

Two and a half stories and Lona’s eyes began to droop. Yawning filled every sentence and she began to misspeak her words horribly. Evangeline breathily chuckled, picking her up and placing the book on the chair. Trudging upstairs she put Lona to bed, changing her and giving her a long kiss on the head, chuckling as Lona muttered blearily.

Feeling a slight breeze on her neck Evangeline walked to the open window, peering into the darkness of the woods beyond the garden. Seeing nothing strange she yawned loudly before closing the window. Walking to her room she changed and got into bed, drifting off into an easy sleep.

It was mere hours before sunrise when she heard it. Waking up and staring at the ceiling she swore she heard whimpering from the other room. What followed was the scuffing of feet on wood and scratching. Eyes widening at the sound of an intruder. She quietly leapt out of bed and took out the knife she kept in her drawer.

Tiptoeing to Lona’s room, she quietly reached for the door. Instantly, the quiet was broken by a shrill scream. Evangeline flung the door open and was met with a terrifying, hulking monster, looming over Lona’s bed with Lona in his jaws. Upon seeing Evangeline, it froze and growled menacingly. Evangeline let loose a raging scream, running at the thing, knife brandished intent to bury it in its skull. It turned and leapt for the now open window one paw already on the windowsill. Evangeline leapt after it, burying the knife to the hilt in its shadowy pelt. Yanking down, Evangeline saw she left a gaping wound in its side. It howled, outraged, and flew from the window, landing on the grass in the garden. Evangeline eyes widened in horror to see that the creature was in fact, made of shadows. Its glowing white eyes glinting evilly at her and Lona crying for help in its jaws. Before Evangeline could pursue it, it took off running into the woods, its form shifting with smoke and tendrils as it went. Leaving no trace that it or Lona were ever there.


	2. Chapter 2

Callan enjoyed the quiet of the shácsi hut, having spent most of his afternoons with his grandpa in there. He often helped his grandpa make medicine, keeping him company as he chatted away about a foal that was born the other day or how someone’s mother had caught a cold while hunting on the moors. Today, Callan had offered to sort through the different medicinal herbs, taking stock of what they had and what they needed more of, while his grandpa organised the medicine jars. Callan barked with laughter as he watched his grandpa stretch his arms to reach a jar just out of reach, bending over until the spine of his upper body was in line with the spine of his equine, lower body. Taking pity on his grandpa, he stood up and trotted past the unlit firepit in the centre of the hut, picking up the jar and graciously handing it to his grandpa.

“Thank you, Callan,” his grandpa said as he accepted it gratefully.

“You know you could’ve just gotten up,” Callan teased as he slumped lazily back into his spot by the doorway as it was the only source of light they could see by in the hut. The firepit would only be lit close to sunset as it was mainly for heat, though it would also be lit if there were patients in the hut, so his grandpa could treat them to the best of his ability.

“Oh, but these old bones couldn’t handle such strain,” his grandpa responded humorously, patting his legs as he did, before he devolved into a fit of coughing and wheezing. Callan rose anxiously, rushing to his grandpa’s side, and gently patted his upper back. His grandpa’s breathing began to ease, and he placed a hand on Callan’s arm reassuringly. Callan’s hooves pawed anxiously at the ground as he waited for his grandpa’s breath to calm.

“Don’t worry about me Callan, it’s just a cough. No signs of the galar dubh in me yet,” his grandpa reassured. Callan replied with a disbelieving stare, before returning to his work.

The black disease. A plague brought down on the gaoithe by the Black Fire that scorched the land where the four races used to live many centuries ago. Named after the black ash said to have covered the land after the fire. None know where it came from, only that soon after the black disease followed.

A vile disease that ate away at the body, stripping it of its strength and vitality, leaving its victims unable to fight against the most harmless diseases or infections. The signs were like that of a cold or cough, with the small exception of their throats, blackened instead of red, ‘as if from the ash and smoke’.

Callan’s grandpa, the shácsi of his clan, both a healer and shaman, told of the harrowing journey of their ancestors, across the blackened land in search of a new home. How so many of their strongest fell to the common cold or small cuts. How mares grew ill and foals born dead or dying. It was a relief to all that the number of those infected had dropped drastically since then, and now mostly infected the old and dying, though sometimes, a healthy stallion or mare, or even a new born foal would contract it every few years. It was a tragic time indeed when that happened. At his last thought, Callan stopped his sorting and stared sadly at the thatched roof above him.

There was no known cure for the disease, though many shácsi had tried to find one. In their history there were tales of few who had miraculously recovered, and many thought it was nothing but a myth. Most felt the price for recovery was worse than death. Once stripped of their strength, recovered victims could never gain it back, remaining weak and frail for the rest of their lives. And there was no place for weakness in clan life.

“Callan?” his grandpa asked.

Callan broke from his thoughts, turning to face his grandpa and waited for him to continue. After a brief pause, his grandpa said, “I’m thinking of taking an apprentice soon.”

After a brief pause, Callan hesitantly asked, “Who?”

“Arabel, Fraser’s daughter. She has shown interest in becoming the clan shácsi, so I offered to take her as my apprentice. And besides,” he rolled his shoulders, causing the joints to pop, “I’m not getting any younger. It is high time I have some permanent help around here.”

“Don’t I offer you enough help?” Callan asked. He knew it was a petty thing to ask, but if his grandpa took an apprentice, he wouldn’t need Callan’s help anymore. And as selfish as it sounded, Callan would have little excuse for avoiding his duties.

“You do Callan. You’ve been wonderful helping me. But we both know you have no intention of becoming shácsi. It takes years of dedication and work to connect with gaothan mora, to seek their guidance,” his grandpa said.

Forging a connection with the great winds was indeed arduous. The shácsi apprenticeship was time consuming and required the apprentice’s full attention. Callan sighed sadly, knowing that Arabel would be a perfect fit for this role. Though he couldn’t help but feel jealous, wishing he could be as well fit for his.

“Speaking of Arabel, it seems the poor thing has got a cold. So sadly, she can only start her apprenticeship after she recovers,” his grandpa sighed, holding out a small clay jar with a sealed lid for Callan to take. “This will help her feel better. Could you please take it to her?”

Callan nodded, before rising again, taking the jar from his grandpa, and walking to the doorway. He paused there, knowing he’d have to face the same pitying and disappointed stares he always did, whether he left the hut now or later to go home. Still, the fact that he had to face them at all made his shoulders droop and his chest ache. Shaking himself off, he said a goodbye to his grandpa over his shoulder sheepishly, knowing he was blocking the only source of light his grandpa could see by, before leaving the hut into the mid-afternoon sun.

He trotted hesitantly through the village, past the many stone huts that functioned as homes. At the edge of the village Callan saw the wicker fence of the empty animal pens. Though gaoithe clans mainly relied on hunting and foraging for their needs, their kind had always had goats and sheep alongside them for milk and wool, which were mostly unobtainable any other way.

Finally, Callan reached a hut with an extended thatched roof, and short tables imbedded in the ground underneath it. On the tables lay a variety of stone and bone tools, chisels, carving knives and arrow tips. Fraser was the clan weapons-maker, anything the clan needed related to that he made. Though every gaoithe was raised to know the basic skills to survive, having gaoithe who specialised in certain tasks saved time and resources, and since everything was shared in the clan, all were taken care of regardless of their part. Luxury items, however, did require some trade, usually for a favour. Trading of resources rarely happened unless between clans and even then, it was only dealt with by the chiefs.

Callan nervously trotted up to the entrance of the hut, about to call inside when a stallion walked out. The chestnut coat of his equine half and the equally chestnut skin of his upper body gleamed with sweat from a long day of work as he walked to one of the tables and began carving.

“Fraser,” said Callan nervously in greeting, opting to meet his gaze as confidently as he could. “The medicine for Arabel,” he continued, holding the jar out towards him.

“She needs to take a little bit every morning and night with water until it runs out. Her cold should be gone very soon.”

Fraser nodded before taking it, muttering a gruff thank you in reply. Placing the jar on the table next to his work, he continued carving. Callan turned and decided he would go home but trotted excitedly towards the outer edge of the village. _Let’s take the scenic route this time_.

Walking the outer edge of the village, he stared at the dark purple, almost black heather dotting the hills. He took a deep breath as he walked, Callan closed his eyes to feel the breeze in his face, tousling his hair as he let out an exhale. And then he bumped into someone, causing them to both fall into the dirt. Groaning and rubbing the sore spot he looked up to see who he’d collided with.

“Watch where you’re going,” said a grey-speckled stallion, of eighteen years as he picked himself off the ground. Callan inwardly cursed great winds for letting him run into Ellar today, of all people as he too picked himself up and dusted himself off.

“Sorry Ellar, I was preoccupied,” he replied, all the while preparing mentally for the oncoming encounter. Ellar had always bullied him as a foal, never failing to remind him how weak he was compared to him. Nowadays though, he seemed to leave Callan alone, having learned that his words can hurt more than physical blows could.

Callan’s eyes glanced past Ellar’s shoulder as he prepared for a verbal lashing, seeing the doorway of the clan hut, a large hut for meetings, occupied by his chief, Druman, of Clan Fiódhaich, and Chief Hamish of Clan Iolaire. He grimaced when he found their attention had fallen upon him and Ellar, before turning his own attention back to the stallion in front of him.

“Then pay attention next time,” Ellar retorted.

“I said I was sorry. What more do you want?” Callan bit back. Insulted, Ellar advanced towards Callan threateningly.

“Watch your tone,” Ellar growled, “I won’t take disrespect from someone like you.”

Unable to find a retort, and tired of the repetition of dealing with situations like this regularly, Callan shoulder’s slumped. Ellar stepped back with a victorious smirk and turned to leave.

“ _Lag_ ,” he spat venomously before walking off.

Weak. Callan flinched at the word. His eyes turned to the chiefs and a mare that had appeared while he wasn’t looking. Chief Hamish stared at him with contempt while his pa stared at him with disappointment. The chiefs returned to their conversations and Callan was about to go home when the mare walked up to him. She had a sandy coat and with equally sandy skin, except for her face which had a white mark around her eyes and mouth, and brown wrappings around her chest.

“You should have stood your ground. Especially in front of our fathers,” she declared suddenly after coming to stand beside him. Callan peaked at her briefly, before following her gaze back to the chiefs.

“Why? He’s right about me, and even if I did have something to say, it would’ve ended in the fight. And… well look at me,” Callan replied, motioning to his body. Many would comment on his physique, barely larger and stockier than a mare’s, skinny and small compared to stallions his age. It was obvious he wasn’t capable of fighting Ellar.

“That’s no excuse. You can’t let your weakness hold you back from becoming chief one day,” she retorted before briefly pausing, a thoughtful expression fell on her face. Her head then snapped to face him with a raised brow, “you do want to become chief one day… Don’t you?”

Callan didn’t meet her gaze, hearing a defeated sigh as she trotted away. He sighed as well, feeling the few eyes that saw the minor squabble look on disapprovingly. He took a deep breath and cantered home. That word, weak, weak, weak, echoed through his head as his chest ached painfully.

His home was like every other in his village, small, sturdy, and welcoming. He quietly walked through the doorway, where he was met with his ma and pa sitting by the firepit, pausing in their conversation. His pa’s black coat and skin shone in the firelight, contrasting heavily with his stark white hair and tail. He had a wool blanket draped over his back and withers, which he was sharing with his mate. Callan’s ma, Bronagh, was a black mare, with a large mist-grey patch over her rump and smaller patches from her withers to her upper back. Callan finally looked into their eyes after a brief silence and saw they both held soulful gazes. He wasn’t surprised his pa was here. He’d once again, taken the long route to put off seeing his pa, but he was here now. There was no avoiding it.

“Pa, what are you doing here, shouldn’t you be accompanying Chief Hamish and his daughter back to their camp?”

“Chief Hamish, and Mackenzie know the way to their camp, it isn’t far. They’ll be heading back to their clan immediately,” his pa replied.

Callan hummed, travelling through the night wasn’t the safest, yet if they had a big enough group, he supposed it would be fine. An awkward silence followed, causing Callan to rub his arms self-consciously, while avoiding his parents’ eyes.

“Callan. Why didn’t you fight?” Callan was about to protest when his pa held up his hand, “and I don’t mean a physical fight, not all arguments should lead to violence. But at least you could’ve stood your ground, defended yourself.”

There was a silent question in his pa’s eyes, _so why didn’t you?_

“Ellar is right about me Pa, everyone is,” Callan paused as his throat grew tight, “I’m weak. Lag. I’ll never be good enough to be chief. So, what’s the point?”

“The point is to try your best, even if you’re at a disadvantage there are ways for you to improve. You just have to work for it.”

There was a moment of silence as his pa continued in a delicate tone, “You may not be able to help the way you were born but you can help how you deal with it.”

His pa extended his hand for Callan to take. Callan grabbed it and was met with a reassuring squeeze.

“Life isn’t always fair Callan, but we all deal with it as best we can,” his ma said sagely. Callan stood there for a while, processing his parents’ words as they gazed at him with love and worry.

“Can’t help the way I was born?” Callan whispered finally, before he was seized with anger.

“I wasn’t born this way; I was infected and now I have to pay for that for the rest of my life,” he spat, glaring at the fire as it shone in his eyes.

His pa sighed, “All people have their struggles. Look at Mackenzie, she’s chief Hamish’s only child, and yet she is determined to become the first mare chief in generations. Everything is against her and she’s never let that stop her.”

His parents were met with silence, as he refused to answer. He released his pa’s hand and stubbornly sat opposite them, on the other side of the firepit, grabbing a blanket and tightly wrapping it around his shoulders.

“Callan,” he heard from his pa, “do you want to become chief one day?” He remained silent.

“If you don’t, we completely understand, but it’s something we need to talk about,” his ma supplied. Callan stubbornly refused to meet their gazes nor converse with them.

They prodded, “Callan… Callan?”

“Yes!” he burst suddenly, “I do. I want to.”

His breath was ragged, and he took a deep breath to try and calm himself. He took several deep breaths before he continued, “But I can’t. Everyone is right, I have no future being chief. A _weakling_ , has no future being chief.”

His throat closed again, and tears pooled in his eyes. “I should’ve… I should’ve died when the galar dubh infected me. It would’ve been better for everyone.”

He heard a gasp from his ma. Realising what he had said his head snapped up and he saw she held a hand in front of her mouth, tears began to roll down her cheeks. Callan’s heart constricted.

“Ma, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” he stopped when he saw his pa hold her, whispering soothingly into her ear and rocking her as she sobbed. Callan sighed defeatedly.

“I’m going out,” he muttered, letting the blanket drop to the ground as he rose. He grabbed his cloak, furred overcoat, and satchel, stuffing a waterskin inside it before stepping out of the hut.

Callan felt the wind whip through his hair as he galloped across the moor, leaping over hummocks and remnants of strange ruins as the sun began to set behind the Silent Wood. He’d hoped going for a run to his usual spot would wash away the terrible feelings that welled in his heart, but so far to no avail. He had to stop or slowed a few times to ease the tightness in his chest and was miffed at the amount of time it took him to get there.

The Silent Wood was a large forest where his clan often went foraging for supplies. It stretched from the northern to the southern edge of gaoithe territory and as far as anyone knew, stretched to the far west of Artera. Though no one travelled beyond the Heart river, it was dangerous to cross and no one had any need to. Callan remembered being warned several times never to enter the woods without someone with him as a small foal, so without fail his grandpa offered to take him whenever there was a shortage of medicine, sometimes even if there wasn’t. They’d be out the whole day and come back with big smiles and shared secrets. _And none suspected a thing_ , Callan smirked.

No, none suspected that on most days him and his grandpa wouldn’t enter the wood at all, but rather would sneak off to sit in their secret spot right at the southern edge of gaoithe territory, where their land ended the human’s began.

Centuries ago, the humans made their border of stones and wood to separate themselves from all that was magic and strange, cutting a line in the land that, as far as Callan knew, stretched from the eastern shore all the way west. To the gaoithe, their border was known as the Slash.

He shook himself off and quietly trotted up to a thicket just as the sky grew dark. He gently pulled back some of the branches and entered its hollow centre. Peeking through a small hole facing a human town, he collapsed comfortably onto the ground and watched. The spot was far enough from the Slash to keep him safely hidden but close enough to see and hear what was happening at the edge of town.

He chuckled at the memory of travelling here with his grandpa as a foal and remembered being perplexed at the strange happenings of humans, as well as their odd language. He was further perplexed when he’d heard his grandpa mirror their speech. He found out then that his grandpa visited this spot long before he was born, first out of curiosity and then in genuine interest to learn about them. In awe, Callan expressed his wish to learn too and his grandpa and him made regular visits to this spot. Sometimes they’d watch in silence, others they practiced the human language in whispers, knowing those private moments would be the only time they could practice without risk of being overheard people of their clan.

When Callan grew older, he questioned why his grandpa sought to learn about humans. His answer always was, “I hope one day the two races may be at peace, without death or bloodshed, and someone will need to be there to bridge the gap.”

Though his grandpa was too old and frail to make the journey as often, Callan went regularly by himself, feeling this was one of the few things he could do right. He would also admit that their spot was a good place to hide and think. No one else dared venture this close to the human border. And so, he sat and listened, watching as all the lights of the town were lit and the adult humans milled around while their children went to bed. _Children_ , he mused, _what an odd word_. As he listened, he mouthed some of the words and sentences he heard, practicing new ones and guessing their meaning.

Breaking out of his reminiscing he noted the animated conversations of the humans ceased as the armoured men, _the guards_ , he corrected, marched from the direction of the large stone fortress that Callan saw above the houses on the far side of the town. They were yelling for people to get inside, warning them of oncoming danger that had been spotted and pointing into the darkness south of Callan.

At the edge of his vision, he saw a shadow dart around the town, purposely avoiding the circle of light the town gave off. It was big and dark, but Callan couldn’t tell if it was the dark of the night that made it so or its own colour. From its jaw came a shrill scream, a young voice begging for help. _A human child._ His eyes immediately leapt to the guards, waiting patiently for any of them to move towards the creature, to help the child. None of them did, instead they all stood with shields held in front of them, creating a barrier between the creature and the town. One old lone guard stood in front of them, holding both a sword and shield out in front of them, the commander no doubt, though Callan had never caught a glimpse of him before.

 _It’s approaching the stones_ , he noted in a panic as the creature eyed the guards carefully and slunk slowly past them. The guards still refused to help, even as the child’s cry echoed across the moor. _Gaothan mora, if it gets across Slash the child is lost._

Seeing no other option, Callan leapt from the thicket, galloping past the Slash and startling the guards as he did. Once he reached the creature, he reared up as high as he could, and let out a bellowing war cry. His plan was to kick the creature in the side, hoping it would distract the thing long enough for him to grab for the child. The fearful eyes of a little girl glanced up at, as she tugged at the part of her dress that was clamped in the beast’s mouth.

“Help me,” she mouthed desperately.

The beast, seeing him distracted, barrelled into his side, knocking him to the ground. From where Callan lay, he saw the creature eyes gleam gleefully, rushing to get up as it shot off into the darkness past the Slash and out over the moors. Callan tried to gallop after it, hoping to catch up when a net was thrown over him. He let out a cry and felt a sharp tug pull him back down to the ground. Looking around wildly, he found himself surrounded by the guards pointing their spears and swords at him.

“Hold it down!” the commander shouted, pulling the net violently, causing it to cut into his shoulder painfully.

“Tie it up. Where’s the muzzle!”

“Right here sir!” answered all the men in chaotic unison.

They grabbed at his coat and satchel, tearing them off, as they bound him in rope like an animal. After he was tied up, he was led by spearpoint around the outside of the town. He was marched to the stone fortress and from there was pushed through a heavy door leading down a torchlit corridor. There he was shoved into a foul-smelling cell, with a single barred window in its roof, as the guards replaced the rope with chains, before slamming his cell door shut behind them. What followed was dead silence as dread pooled in his stomach. His shoulders shook as he let out an ugly sob.

_What am I going to do?_


	3. Chapter 3

The shrill chattering of a magpie called overhead announcing the new day, accompanied by the steady beat of clacking hooves and wagon wheels over a bumpy dirt road. The wagon was driven by a scraggly old man, who whistled the beginnings of a joyful tune. Everything was bright and happy, and Evangeline hated it. The annoyance burned in her chest and a discontented scowl marred her face. She grasped the feeling with an iron fist, holding fast to it lest it vanish and let the hopelessness that prowled at the back of her mind seep through.

Sighing harshly, she glanced at her surroundings from where she sat at the back of the wagon. She grumbled in discomfort as she felt the bite of the wood grains of the crates in her back and felt them catch at her tunic. To distract herself she reached inside her satchel that sat nestled in her lap and pulled out her map. Though plain and inexpensive, her map served its purpose. Dotting the east coast were small mining towns, providing Artera with its main source of economy. There were many cities in Artera, all of which were dwarfed by Steelwater, the capital. It sat at the southern-most tip of Artera, functioning as a major hub for foreign trading and other affairs and housing the High General in the spired castle.

Finally dragging her gaze to the northern edge of known Artera, she saw illustrated stones and wooden fencing stretching from the west to east coast, the Border, protecting the humans from the creatures that lived beyond it. Guarding the Border were Bordertowns and Bleakwater to the east, the only Bordercity, each packed with lances of guards lead by centuri, to keep the Border from being breached.

But Evangeline’s focus was on one specific Bordertown, Hallowguard. The closest Bordertown to Far Horn. Remembering last night, clenching her eyes shut and gripping her knees. _The Border_ , she had thought, watching as the shadow creature disappeared into the night, with Lona screaming from its jaws, _that’s where that beast was headed_.

Once she came to that conclusion, she wasted no time packing all essentials in her satchel, catching the first wagon she could find heading to Hallowguard before the sun began to rise. Now six hours into her journey, she was only halfway there, and she couldn’t shake the icy claw the constricted her heart. _I must hurry_. Slumping against the crates, she stared up at the blue sky and sighed. Hallowguard couldn’t come soon enough.

Evangeline reached Hallowguard by midday, as the old man slowly eased his wagon through the bustling streets. He’d sold some of his wares in Far Horn; pots and carvings, and was no doubt travelling Hallowguard to sell much the same. Sighing, she preoccupied herself with the sight of Hallowguard instead. It had grown a fair bit since she had been there as a child, having grown twice as big as Far Horn, she estimated, where previously it was only half as big. Glancing to the northern part of town, she spotted the stone fortress that acted as the military headquarters for Hallowguard. Its tall stone wall hugged the north western part of town protectively, shielding it from the thick woods beyond the Border.

Evangeline was broken from her thoughts when the wagon abruptly came to a halt and the old man muttered something unintelligible through his bushy, greying moustache. Taking this as a farewell, she nodded gratefully at him and hopped off the wagon, hearing its wheels clatter over the cobbled tiles as it drove away. Evangeline briefly glanced around, feeling some nostalgia seep into her heart before she shook herself off and began making her way towards the fortress.

She reached the fortress’ courtyard. To the west stood the guards’ barracks and to the north the fortress itself. The roof of the fortress functioned as battlements with crenels that allowed archers to shoot at any attackers. The wall was lower than the fortress roof, with its own crenels and a walkway. Evangeline suspected the architects designed the fortress and wall to let the archers on the fortress roof shoot at attackers without shooting at their own people. _Smart in some areas_ , _but stupid in others_ , she thought, her gaze travelling along the wall as it stretched east, lowering and lowering until disappearing completely a short ways after the woods ended and the moors began, leaving the north eastern part of Hallowguard defenceless.

While technically the woods were far more dangerous than open moors, as anything on the moors could be spotted easily, it had been generations since anything had come out of the woods, and the most common attacks happened from the gaoithe whom lived on the moors. It would’ve been smarter to extend the wall all around the northern part of Hallowguard, but whether due to stupidity or lack of resources, they hadn’t, and no one had thought to change it in recent years either.

Sparks of anger flared in her chest. _Have they learnt nothing?_ she thought before the anger faded, leaving her to only sigh. _So many lives lost… and for what?_

Returning from her thoughts, she casually walked to a pair of heavy wooden doors, that she assumed functioned as the fortress’ main entrance, where two guards stood, both holding a spear and a shield. She stopped at the door just as both guards crossed their spears, barring her from entering.

“State your name and business,” came a husky yet feminine voice of the left guard. Evangeline peered through their helm but could see no discernible features other than green eyes and dark olive skin, slightly darker than her own. She took a deep breath before answering, “I have come to see the Centurus of Hallowguard. May I speak with them please?”

“He is currently busy speaking with the Lance Captains,” said the second guard’s voice, muffled and quiet.

Evangeline shook her head, “I still need to speak with him. It’s urgent.”

The olive-skinned guard stared at her, hoping to intimidate her with their taller and broader stature. Evangeline puffed out her chest and straightened her shoulders, before throwing a determined glare back at them. Finally, they stopped, nodding to the quieter guard, who quickly opened the door and scurried through, closing it as they did.

Evangeline continued to fix her stare at the guard who still stood at the door with their spear across it. But the guard soon removed their gaze from her and looked elsewhere. Evangeline followed suit, deciding to peek through the windows of the fortress from where she stood. Immediately she noticed something that puzzled her. The eastern part of the fortress was single-story, lacking any battlements atop it, roughly a man’s height shorter than the wall. The windows were barred, while the rest of the windows were simple glass windows, like those of the cottages and houses in town. _A prison?_ She questioned. She then shrugged and turned her gaze to the barracks instead, _they have to put prisoners somewhere, I guess._

It was some time before the quiet guard came back, shuffling through the doors, before holding them open for her. She walked through and heard the heavy door slam behind her as she followed them down a long hallway, up a flight of stairs, on and on until they reached a single wooden door. They knocked on the door nervously and waited for an answer. Evangeline heard a gruff, ‘Come in.’

The guard promptly scuttled off, and she was left alone. She opened the door and was met with a hardy, clean shaven man, as old as the wagon driver, but slightly more built, who sat at a comfortable high-backed chair with a desk. His office wasn’t luxurious or lavish, however, it did have a few cabinets, a bookshelf and lanterns hanging from the wall. There was also a wide window to the east, which from sunrise until noon, would paint fill this room with natural light.

“Are you the Centurus?” she spoke abruptly. The man raised his brow at her with a surprised look before he returned to shuffling his papers, ink pen in hand as he quietly answered, “I am.”

A silence followed, which Evangeline begrudgingly kept, as she would need his cooperation if she wanted answers. She heard from outside the echoing shouts of soldiers which came through the closed window. They hadn’t been there when she was outside, and Evangeline had little clue when they got there and why. The Centurus also glanced towards the window, noticing the sound, before placing his pen atop his papers and finally glanced fully at her.

“My apologies young miss, the reports for General of Bleakwater is due soon and I have been too preoccupied with my Lance Captains as of late to finish it.”

Evangeline nodded sympathetically, though she wished he would do it another time. She new of these monthly reports that centuri sent to their generals to look over, though if Evangeline remembered correctly from Ms. Carlyle’s lessons, it was common for the subalterni, second in command, to a general to look over them and any urgent or strange news would then be brought to their general. There were four generals and the High General that made up the Council and each had their own subalternus. Each General was housed in one of the major cities; Bleakwater, Seal Bay, Coppermore and Saltkeep, while the High General commanded all of them from the capitol. Each had various centuri under them, who in turn commanded the guards of the larger towns and smaller cities. Under each centurus were three lance captains, whom each commanded one lance of soldiers. Smaller towns and villages such as her home, Far Horn, had only one lance and lance captain, who reported to a centurus elsewhere, while larger settlements had one or more centuri. When not following orders from a higher commander, they would defer to the mayor of the settlement.

All this knowledge came flashing at Evangeline at once as she remembered Ms. Carlyle’s lesson. ‘Knowledge is power’ she always said. Though Evangeline grimaced at the scolding she would get if Ms. Carlyle found out she forgot the naval hierarchy.

Shaking herself off once she noticed the Centurus’ attention on her, she began recounting the details of what happened the previous night, including the description of the creature and it’s direction towards the Border. Throughout Evangeline’s recounting, he had his hand rubbing over his greying, bushy moustache.

She ended by asking, “Was anything like that spotted around here?”

He paused and dropped his hand onto the armrest of his chair, then answered, “Yes, last night a creature like that came past Hallowguard-”

“Where did it go?” She asked abruptly.

He stared, running his hand over his face before looking away, before answering her, almost carefully, “I can’t say. It was dark and none of us could see it very clearly.”

“Well how many giant dark beasts come running through here regularly?” Evangeline asked, fury rising in her chest at his vague answers. “Hallowguard is known to have some of the best guards in Artera guarding the Border. How could a giant monster with a kidnapped child slip past you.”

“How dare you-”

“No, how dare you!” she shouted before he could finish, furious that he had the audacity to be insulted. “My sister could be long gone, kidnapped or even killed and I’m wasting my time talking to an old man who won’t give me answers, when I could be out finding her! It’s your job to protect the people Artera and you couldn’t even protect one when she needed you,” Evangeline felt tears begin to well up.

“Not everyone can be saved, it is the military’s duty to prevent any _more_ casualties then there have already been," he responded. Evangeline glared venomously before turning away.

Just then there was a knock at the door and the quiet guard from earlier stuck their head through. “Centurus Ian, Lance Captain Lark asks if you would come to the courtyard.”

Centurus Ian sighed, glancing at Evangeline pityingly before turning towards the guard. “I’ll be there shortly.”

He then turned back to Evangeline and said softly, “Stay here, I won’t be long.”

He followed the guard out the door, leaving Evangeline to simmer in silence, save for the guards outside. She sighed, running her hands through her hair over and over as she walked over to the window and leaned against the wall. There wasn’t much to look at outside, but she could watch afternoon turned to evening. _A full day gone_ , she thought as her chest tightened painfully, _wasted more like_.

She jumped though when she heard a muffled sound slightly noticeable over the guards’ yelling. She pushed off the wall and looked around turning her head this way and that. She heard it again, still muffled, but she could make out what it was. “Hey.”

It was a voice coming from the window. She walked back to it and struggled with the latch, flinging it open as she stuck her head outside, waiting for the voice again.

“Down here,” she heard, looking down at the roof of the prison from earlier. She saw a square opening in the roof, barred over much like the prison windows, and lying there under the bars was a dark masculine figure with a muzzle over his mouth.

“What?” she asked.

“I overheard you shouting with that man, about the beast that came through here last night. It had a girl in its jaws. That was your sister, right?” he asked, his thick accent causing him to roll his r’s and mispronounce a few words. Evangeline had never heard an accent like his before.

“It went past the rock border; I can take you in the direction it was headed. Please, just get me out of here?”

Creasing her brows, she stared at him in suspicion.

“Please?” the stranger implored.

Evangeline sighed, “Fine, but how do I get you out of there?”

“There’s a door next to my cell here that leads into the fortress, and a door down the hall that leads outside.”

Evangeline nodded, seeing his plan. She walked from the window up to the door, opening it enough to peek outside. Seeing no one, she closed it quietly and walked up to the Centurus’ desk, riffling among his papers and through his drawers for a key. She hadn’t seen one on his person, and she assumed he had a key for the prison. She reasoned that if there was more than one lock in this fortress that someone so busy and important wouldn’t leave them loose and lying around. _And why hide them anywhere else but his office?_ Though Evangeline hoped she wouldn’t have to look through every single one of his drawers and cabinets to find them.

She searched through most of his desk drawers before she found a loop of keys, varying in sizes and shape in the final one. She gave a quiet yet victorious ‘yes!’ before quickly making her way to the door and down the hall, figuring the prison was in the opposite direction of the main door she entered through.

Reaching a heavy door with a small opening, she looked around suspiciously before quietly attempting to unlock the door. She went through almost every key before the last one fit. Placing the key in the lock with a frustrated sigh, she turned it with a satisfying click and pushed the door open, thankful that it didn’t squeak. Smirking she rushed in and closed the door behind her.

“Thank the gaothan mora, you made it! Now please, untie me?”

Still smirking proudly, Evangeline turned and rushed to open the cell door when she finally looked upon the stranger fully. Following his silhouette from his shoulder, down his waist, finding a horse’s body past that.

The keys dropped to the floor with a clang as Evangeline stared at the creature, slowly creeping backwards. Her breath stuttered as she scowled, and her eyes narrowed.

“You’re one of them.”


	4. Chapter 4

Callan blanched at the human woman, watching as her mouth contorted into an ugly snarl.

“One of them?” he asked, flinching at the intensity of her hatred in her gaze. Following her eyes, he saw it was glued to his equine lower half.

He sighed desperately, knowing she was his last hope to escape this place alive. None who had been captured by humans had ever come back. He saw her back away from his cell and attempt to grasp the door behind her, keys swinging in her other hand.

“Feitheamh!” he cried desperately. The woman held the door handle all the more tightly and almost seemed to curl in on herself as she heard him mutter madly in Aothe. Callan soon realised this and took several deep, stuttering breaths.

“Wait. Please wait,” he said once he’d calmed down. Callan’s tongue felt heavy with the sudden foreignness of the Arteran language. He took another steadying breath, “Please don’t go?”

The woman froze, struck by the weak, beseeching tone he took, though she still eyed him suspiciously.

“You’re a gaoithe.”

It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t think it needed confirmation if it was. Nonetheless he nodded meekly, hoping it would placate her. It must have worked, because she let go of the door handle and approached his cell door, grasping the bars.

“Answer me truthfully,” she said, after a brief pause, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, “Did you see where that thing was headed?”

Callan nodded. There were faint sounds of alarm that came from the window above Callan’s cell. Soldiers milling around and shouting in noticeably different tones than before. They both glanced up before returning each other’s looks.

“If I free you, will help me?” she asked. Her eyes reflected the light from his cell window above him, contrasting with her olive skin and dark hair, making her gaze appear as piercing as the soldier’s metal weapons. She gazed at him then, with that encompassing look of hers, daring him to lie, to give her false hope, with the promise of destruction should he do so. The ruckus outside grew louder. Soon the guards would be upon them. He couldn’t look away.

“Yes.”

She blinked, and the look was gone. Callan sighed as she nodded. She unlocked the cell door with a quiet click, flinging it open. She rushed towards him, pulling a knife from her satchel. Callan tensed, jerking his head away from her. He felt the blade kiss his skin but felt no pain and soon felt the ropes being cut and loosened. She made quick work of them, cutting the rope around his wrists last. He reached to pull off the muzzle but struggled with the clasp.

“Didn’t have any luck keeping you quiet,” she said as she pushed his hands out of the way and pulled off the muzzle.

“I don’t think that was the point,” he replied, working his jaw to rid him of the aches as the woman backed out of the cell, discarding the muzzle on her way. Callan stiffly rose and followed her.

They made their way down the long hall past many cells, just as they heard footsteps from the door next to his cell. They glanced at each other before breaking into a run to the far door. Callan paused to snatch his satchel and warm coverings that were discarded on the floor while the woman went through the keys to unlock the door. Just then Callan heard a bang as the prison door behind them swung open and two guards rushed in, no doubt looking for the woman next to him. They were spotted easily, and he heard them call for reinforcements before they ran towards Callan with their spears raised.

Callan heard a click and a triumphant whoop as the woman heaved the door open. There were yelps of the guards stationed outside the door, but Callan both payed them no heed as he burst from the prison and took off running.

The woman was running at his side and quickly yanked on his cloak and yelled, pointing to their escape route. In the light of the evening sun, Callan saw a wide gap between the wall around the fortress and the houses of the town, showing the large field where he fought the previous night, lined with stones and fences that marked the Slash. Beyond that, he saw the open moors that were his home. Struck by the force of his longing and relief, he felt adrenaline rush through him as he began galloping. He would’ve run and never looked back had he not heard neighing behind him.

Not yet in a gallop, he turned his head and saw the soldiers pursuing them on foot were gaining on the woman, whom he had almost forgotten. Far behind them he saw guards tacking their horses, bows and quivers lashed to their backs.

He slowed to a canter but didn’t stop. Conflicted and unsure if he should leave her. His eyes flickered between her and the soldiers, then back to the moors. He whimpered as he gazed at them but ultimately whipped around towards the woman. He looped around her, scooped her up by her arms and yanked her onto his back, just as the guards were upon her. He broke into a gallop as he heard the steady beat of hooves behind them. Glancing back, he saw ten horses with riders atop them, many with bows already in hand and arrows knocked to shoot. Those who didn’t have bows in hand, held ropes and nets, intent on surpassing him to trap them both. Callan shivered as he noticed they were steadily approaching.

On his back the woman struggled to steady herself, grunting with the strain as her legs dangled on his right side, her arms grasping around his torso and yanking at his shoulders as she fought to get her left leg over his back. To help her Callan stretched his arms backwards hoping to grab her should she slip off. She managed to right herself, though the struggle had caused Callan to slow some.

The cavalry had gained ground and were now shooting arrows at them which Callan dipped and weaved to avoid getting hit. He felt his angry passenger shake him with a yell. Turning his head to the side to hear her above the wind, Callan felt her legs grip his back as she hoisted herself higher, to point over his shoulders but still reach his ear.

“You have to speed up!” she yelled; her voice steady despite their erratic movements.

“Huh?”

“There are guards in the town, over there,” she replied, pointing to a cluster of houses that marked the left of the gap they were running towards. Over his breathing and the sound behind him, he could make out the yells of people. Had she not pointed it out, he would’ve thought it was the townsfolk and not the shout of orders and the organised footsteps of soldiers.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned his head to hear her, “They’ll block us in if we don’t hurry. We’ll never escape them if they catch us here!”

He knew she was right and sped up to a painful pace that made him heave and his lungs burn. _So close_ , he thought as the gap towards freedom was just within reach. Though the guards armed with shields and pikes were already creating a blockade. He knew then that passing the Slash wasn’t enough, the cavalry would attempt to follow them. They had cared enough to keep him alive, and they would want the woman back, at the very least to punish her.

Just as the final soldiers were about to complete the blockade, Callan sprang past them, narrowly avoiding the pikes that sprang at him in a last-ditch effort stop him. He shot across the field where he was captured and leapt over the Slash in a blur of movement. Soldiers cried in fury behind him and he thought he heard the horses make the same jump he just did to pursue him. Callan wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop until he had left this place far behind him.

The Border and the soldiers of Far Horn had long faded from view before the gaoithe decided it was safe to stop. He had run like the wind, leaping with practiced ease over the hills and mounds at break-neck speed. And it was taking its toll.

When he finally came to a halt, he doubled over in agony, hacking his lungs out as he struggled to take breaths of much needed air. Evangeline quickly dismounted in fright and backed away from him, eyeing him suspiciously as he struggled. His wheezing only worsened as he seemed to start panicking, only succeeding in taking short breaths, which were halted by his constant coughing. He must have realised that because he attempted to straighten his upper body and tried to slow his breathing, taking deep, croaky breaths. His coughing eased after a time and he reached into his satchel, pulling out a waterskin and taking a big drink.

Evangeline noted that he gurgled it and spat it out, which must have worked, for his next breaths were steadier and clearer than before. As he took another drink, Evangeline glanced away to the west and found that they were seeing only by the last rays of light as it dipped behind the woods that stood northwest of Far Horn. A cold feeling filled her body as it dawned on her. She was beyond the Border, in the territory of inhuman and dangerous creatures that felt no love for humans whatsoever, accompanied by one of them no less. She clenched her hand around the strap of her satchel and shook herself off. _If this is what it takes_ , she thought determinedly, _then so be it_.

Evangeline turned back to the gaoithe, a young man, she suspected, as he looked no more than 17, two years younger than her… Or at least his human-like half did, though with her little knowledge on the gaoithe or anything else beyond the Border, she wasn’t inclined to trust that anything was as it appeared to be. Once his breathing had steadied, she approached him cautiously and asked him again, “Do you know where the monster was headed?”

He then turned to face her and fixed a determined stare and replied with certainty. “Yes.”

 _Good, he hadn’t tried to trick her… yet._ She’d been afraid that once he was freed, he’d leave her to journey alone. Nodding to show she understood, Evangeline turned and looked out across the vast landscape. The weak light of the moon shone from behind the clouds, which illuminated the hills and heathers with a faint pale glow. The only light to see by as the sun had just set. She wondered what kind of shelter they would find out on the moors. It wasn’t safe to sleep out in the open, exposed to the wind and elements.

She heard the gaoithe move, slowly trotting down the hill into its shallow valley. Following him, they walked in silence, with only the rustling of grass and the wind galloping across the moors to break it. They travelled some time over hills before they reached a rock outcropping in the shadow of one, hugged by a short tree. It created a safe alcove that faced away from the wind and though it wouldn’t protect them much from any rain it was the best they had.

The gaoithe broke branches from the tree and lay them on the dry ground to start a fire. He riffled through his satchel, looking for something. He said something harshly, what Evangeline thought might’ve been a swear, then looked to her and asked, “The guards took everything but my waterskin, cloak and coat. You wouldn’t happen to have a fire striker, would you?”

Evangeline nodded, wondering what a gaothan fire striker would use, since it was known that they used bone and ivory to make their weapons instead of metal. When she handed it to him, carefully in case he made a move to grab for her, she noticed he eyed the steel oddly before setting to work lighting a fire. Evangeline walked to the tree, grabbing more wood, and setting it down within his reach as the flame caught. Looking at her gratefully he tended to the fire and she sank down to rest at the edge of the alcove, opposite of where he sat at the base of it, wanting to keep her distance from him.

Pulling out a woollen cloak from her satchel, she hugged it around herself and laid her satchel down, resting her head on it and watched the growing flames licking at the wood. The warmth kissed her icy face, turned cold from the wind on the open moor. She hadn’t noticed it while they were galloping across the hills, nor when she dismounted from the gaoithe. Looking at him now, she noticed the inhuman-ness of him, even though his upper body was human-like. Though his upper body wasn’t covered in hair, it still shared the same colour as his equine coat, pitch black, only broken by light grey patches dotting his skin. His face held very faint freckles as well that only stood out in the intense firelight. His hair and tail were snow white, a stark contrast to his coat.

“My name is Callan,” said the gaoithe as he pulled on his own cloak, then pulled on a furred coat that sat over his shoulders. Evangeline’s eyes flicked from his form to meet his eyes.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes flicked to the fire as they entered an awkward silence. She decided she would give him this at least and offered her own name, “Evangeline.”

The gaoithe… Callan, hugged his cloak closer to himself and nodded, before shuffling around and laying his upper body against the rock outcropping to sleep. Only once his breathing evened, did Evangeline relax and softly doze off.


End file.
